‘It is though, isn’t it? Putting yourself in the emotional firing line, making yourself vulnerable. Especially someone like you,’ Connie added, as she leaned over, using her biro and notepad to tot up the figures for the day, and counted cash into bundles before shoving it into tiny plastic bags ready to deposit at the bank tomorrow.
‘What do you mean someone like me?’ She blinked at the implication that she was in some way peculiar.
Connie paused from her task and chewed her bottom lip with her large teeth, as if keen to get the phrasing right.
‘I guess what I mean is that you’re lovely, Taw. You’re that person, the one everyone loves: kind, bit quiet, caring, just ... lovely! That’s the best word. You’re not cynical or jaded when it comes to men. You believe the best about people. You’re trusting. You’re the one who hands in lost mittens and feeds injured birds. You do the right thing and this is a leap into the unknown.’
It was a nice way of summarising her lack of experience but did little to calm her. But Connie wasn’t done.
‘This Farquhar bloke . . .’
Tawrie knew there was little point in objecting to his nickname, it had already taken hold.
‘... you’ve only met him a couple of times, barely spoken to him, and it feels risky. If you were the kind of woman who hooked up with a different bloke whenever the fancy took you’ – Connie looked at the floor and she knew that, like her, her cousin was thinking of Annalee – ‘then whatever happens next would be water off a duck’s arse, but you’re not. You’re our sweet, slightly grumpy, serious-faced Tawrie Gunn and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
‘I just want to have a nice time. I like feeling like this – a bit excited!’ She did her best to explain it.
Connie reached out and cupped the side of her face in her palm. Her cousin might only have been a few years older but she had always loved and mothered her in this way.
‘You’re right, Taw, have a nice time and enjoy every minute. Just don’t give too much of you away – and I’m not talking about dropping your knickers again!’
‘Again, I wish I’d never told you!’
‘Who else are you going to tell?’ Her cousin had a point. ‘Remember, first dates are cringey to begin with, but you’ll know when it’s going well when the conversation flows and you’re not embarrassed to eat in front of him.’
‘Embarrassed to eat in front of him?’ This was a new one on her.
‘Yeah, it’s a thing. I know loads of people who can’t eat on a first date, or a second, or third. The whole putting food in your gob is a big deal!’
‘You sound like you speak from experience.’
‘I do! I lose pounds when I start dating, just nibble like a bird and then have to go home and have bowls of cereal before bed.’
A bang on the glass of the door gave them both a start. She looked up as Connie’s boy, Sonny, squashed his face against the door, leaving a greasy smear from his chocolate-covered mouth.
‘Come on, Mum! Dad’s in the van and you said we could do crazy golf!’ His eyes were wide, whether at the prospect of crazy golf or due to the amount of chocolate he’d consumed, it was hard to know.
‘Right there, my love, is another reason to keep your pants on. All I want is a hot bath, a cup of tea and a nap in front of the telly in my pyjamas. Instead I’m off to play crazy golf with that reprobate.’
Her cousin’s words were clear and yet the way her eyes lit up at the sight of her son turned them into a lie.
‘You and Farquhar can join us if you like?’ Connie smiled at her suggestion.
‘Yeah, that sounds like fun!’ Tawrie let her lip rise in a curl; it was the very last thing in the world she wanted to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HARRIETSTRATTON
AUGUST2002
Harriet sat at the kitchen table. Hugo was walking around the harbour on his morning constitutional, a habit of which she heartily approved. The way she breathed in his absence, a reminder that in his presence she held her breath, overly conscious of her expression, demeanour and language. A little on edge. They had always been a working couple whose lives collided in their early morning bathroom visits and of an evening across the supper table, chattering wildly on shared car journeys and at the weekend. This new exile, where she had no job and he was working from home, meant they were together in the little cottage most of the time and it was a stark reminder of how much she had relished the quiet of their village house when he was out and the kids were at school. The moments of solitude that gave her time to think, reset, plan the minutiae of life: what to make for supper, what needed laundering next, a quick check on the calendar that hung on the wall of the utility room. They were gaps in her working schedule that she valued. Here it wasdifferent. They prowled around each other, seeking out space, wary, while she did her best to get through the silences that screamed of all they were each trying so hard to contain.
In the quiet of the kitchen and with her thoughts cluttered, she opened her diary. The cupboards were stocked with the kids’ favourite cereal, chocolate nestled in their sweetie tin, and pizzas lurked in the fridge. It was a crass attempt to make them want to be here, to delight them at the prospect of this new life simply by providing the junk and sweet treats ordinarily rationed. The equivalent of a magic trick, clever finger-clicking to draw the eye away from something you were not meant to see. This, like all her conversations with the children and the upbeat, optimistic notes she’d popped into their luggage, felt laced with deceit, and yet she deemed it necessary. Not that it made it any easier to swallow.
Their new rooms were tidy: their beds made in their familiar bed linen, toys packed on to shelves, work desks assembled and lamps on their bedside tables. It was easy to make the place look pretty and homey. Her confidence, however, in them settling into this new environment was not high. It was hard not to bring her own doubts and insecurities into the cottage, and Bear was a sensitive boy. The way he’d held on for dear life when they’d said goodbye, in stark contrast to his usual, casual peck on the cheek, suggested he might already be aware that there was more to being shipped off to his aunt’s than giving his mum and dad time to get the house ready.
‘But why, Mum? Why are we moving? I’m goalie next term for the A team!’
